The Apothecary Rose (8 page)

'I'll pay better than your usual price for it.'

There he went with the money again. Bess shook
her head. 'That would not make up for the loss of
business. I save it for a regular customer. Otherwise
only for short stays in between. What would I do with
you when he returns on Monday next?'

'I'll pay double for this room to keep it private.'

Bess frowned. She didn't like folk who threw away
their money. Besides, it wasn't right to waste a bed.

'A private room is a rare commodity, Owen Archer.
How came you to be so keen on it?'

He said nothing.

She read discomfort in his face. It intrigued her.

'You aren't looking for a place to hide?'

'No.'

She waited, hands on hips. A cart rattled by in
the street below. A cat padded down the hallway.

Owen grinned. 'You would make a good interro
gator.'

Bess waited.

'It's simple. It's the eye and my years of training
as a soldier. Someone sneaks up on my left.' He spun round. Bess pressed back against the wall. He thrust
with an imaginary sword.

'Merciful Mother.' Bess crossed herself.

He retreated, sheathed the invisible sword. 'I do
not trust myself if I'm awakened suddenly.'

'I'll have no trouble here’ she warned.

'I will not wittingly cause you trouble.' His voice
was level. He looked straight at her with the good
eye.

Bess smoothed her apron, patted her ribboned cap, suppressed a smile. Oh, to be ten years younger and of
a slightly better class. 'There is a small room, upstairs in the back. I keep it for family visits. It's plain. But it
has a window that looks out on the Wiltons' garden.'

The apothecary's garden. Perfect. 'I should not put
your family out.'

Bess heard courtesy rather than honesty in Owen's
voice. He wanted the room, her family be damned. It
rang true. The thought of the extra revenue pleased her. Her husband, Tom, needed a new pair of boots
and she had to purchase a donkey for the cart - Flick
was getting long in the tooth.

'Don't worry yourself about my children. Their visits
are few and far between. And they grew up in a farm
house - my second husband, Peter, God rest his soul,
farmed near Scarborough. They're used to making do.
Let me show you the room.'

She apologised for the creaky ladder up to the third
floor. She and Tom didn't mind it, but the archer might
be used to better.

'I grew up sharing the floor with goats,' he assured
her.

'Well, you'll not have to do that here.' She pushed
open the low door. He bent over to step in, straightened
up inside, stretched his arms overhead. His fingers just
brushed the ceiling. He walked over to the window,
pushed it open, leaned out, turned with a smile.

'This will suit me, Goodwife Merchet.'

She liked the curl his accent made in her name.

She quoted a rate just slightly more than for the

double room below.

'More than fair. I'll give you a fortnight's fee today.'
Bess ran down the list of house rules and left him

to settle himself. She must get that stew over to Lucie.

She resolved not to tell Lucie about Owen just yet. Wait

to see if the handshake proved reliable.

Exhausted, Lucie Wilton nodded off as she sat in the
corner of the bedchamber, her head coming to rest on
the shop accounts. The room was tiny and close, and
Lucie had not slept well since her husband fell ill.
Even now, her nap was interrupted by Nicholas's
muttering. But it was good he woke her. She had
not meant to sleep. She had closed the shop for the
midday meal and a chance to go over the accounts.
Things tallied well. They had lost no customers to
Nicholas's illness. In fact, the books reflected business as usual.

Even the inventory. Nicholas always kept meticulous records of the medicines they dispensed, so that
he might improve the efficiency of the garden. He still
had to trade for some roots and barks, and buy some of the minerals and gemstones - ground pearl and emerald
were popular with some of their wealthier clients - but
they got most of the herbs they used from their own
garden.

Lucie had taken pains to spread out the fatal dose
of aconite in the records, a pinch in this physick, a
pinch in that, over a week's time. The books would
arouse no suspicion.

But she worried how long she could keep up her
pace. She rubbed the back of her neck, sat up slowly,
every muscle aching. It was too much, the shop, the
household, the garden. She had asked the Guildmaster
for an apprentice. Being an apprentice herself, she knew
it was unlikely he would agree. He'd been much too
courteous to say that to her face, but she knew how
it worked. What was sincere was his praise for her
work. Not one customer had been turned away since
Nicholas took to his bed.

But Lucie paid for it with a weariness that she
could no longer ignore. Bess, bless her heart, was only too happy to mother her. She already took care of most
of the meals. And she'd taken an armload of mending
this morning. No doubt she would clean the house if
given a chance. Lucie had given up the fight with dust - a fine layer lay over everything in the house, upstairs
and down. But not the shop. That was pristine. She
neglected nothing about the shop. Nicholas was proud
of her. She was proud of herself. It was one thing to
be an apprentice, quite another to be in charge. She
enjoyed it, revelled in it, but also feared it. Every min
ute of every day, with every grain she measured out,
she was aware of the trust the people of York placed in
her. She held the power of life and death. One slip, one
mismeasure could kill. She double- and triple-checked
everything, focusing her attention completely on the
task at hand.

But she could not keep up such diligence without
more sleep. She must sleep. She must have help. If
not an apprentice, at least a serving girl.

'Lucie. Are you sleeping at the table?'

She jerked alert and winced as pain radiated from
head to neck to arm. But it was good to have Nicholas
alert, speaking, knowing her again. His speech was
slurred, as if his mouth did not work quite right yet,
but understandable. And when the pale eyes lit on her,
they saw her, not some phantom, as they had on those
first horrible nights.

He had asked if the pilgrim was up and about
yet. She had told him that even his physick could
not save the man. Nicholas had crossed himself and
bowed his head. Lucie prayed she never had to tell him the complete truth.

The Apothecary
Rose

He bided his time, shaking out his extra shirt and
leggings, easing his feet out of his boots for a bit. They
stank. He stank. He must ask about the public baths.
When he saw no one at any windows opposite, nor
down below, he leaned out the window and studied
the apothecary's garden. Tidy, laid out in an unusual
fashion. More variety than in most such. It looked like a monastery garden. Behind a holly hedge, what must
be a potting shed. He could just see the back of the
house. A door that led into the garden, one window
below, two above. A modest but comfortable house.

Down below, Bess Merchet bellowed an order. Owen
grinned. She could be useful to him. And he liked her. Sharp-witted, bold, comely for the mother of grown
children - bright red hair, a round but compact body
- and a nice sense of humour. Little could get past
her. She must know all the gossip worth know
ing.

He put on his boots and patch and went downstairs
with his salve pot and money pouch.

'You'll be hungry,' was Bess's greeting. She motioned
to him to sit down at a trestle table. 'Kit! A trencher and stew. And some of the new ale.'

A man came through the back door, carrying a
bucket. He nodded to Owen. 'Tom Merchet.' Younger
than Bess by a few years, burly, with friendly eyes.
'You'll be Master Archer.'

'Aye. Call me Owen, if you will. I trust I'll be
with you awhile.'

Tom put down the bucket and went over to fill a
tankard with ale. Setting it down in front of Owen,
he stood back, arms folded. 'Go on. Taste ale. See if it's
not better than any in London.'

Owen took a good long drink, then set the tankard
down with a hearty thud. He nodded, smiled. 'I'd heard
tales of York Tavern ale, but none did it justice.' He
meant it.

Tom nodded and went out.

A young woman brought the food. Bess followed
close behind. 'Go on now, Kit, have your meal in the
back.' The girl scuttled out.

Owen ate the stew with relish. All the while Bess
hovered nearby, moving benches, fussing with cob
webs. He finished, downed the rest of the ale, and pushed the bench away from the table.

'You've made a fast friend, praising his ale so high’
Bess said.

'I like to give praise where it's due. I've never
had better inn fare. The stew was fit for a lord's
table. Archers, even captains of archers, do not often
partake of such fare.'

The herbs and some of the vegetables are from
the Wilton garden. Nicholas has always been generous
with me.'

'He's the apothecary?'

'Aye. Round the corner on Davygate.'

'A good apothecary?'

Bess sniffed. 'The best in the North Country.'

Owen noted the qualifier. Not the kingdom, but
the North Country. Not an exaggerator. She did not
claim there were none better even in London.

'I need a salve for the eye.'

A mischievous grin lit Bess's face. 'They'll fix you up.'

'Why do you smile?'

Bess shrugged. ' 'Tis nothing. I think of a dozen
things at once.'

The sly gleam in her eye made Owen uneasy. He
had to be careful. 'Now let me give you the fortnight's
rent before I explore the city.'

Bess tucked the money in her apron pocket and smiled to herself. It would not be a bad thing for Lucie to encounter a charming rogue. Have an adventure while her ageing, ailing husband was abed. It would warm
Lucie's blood, fortify her for the times ahead. Bess
knew that Lucie Wilton would catch Owen Archer's
eye. She was fair, straight-backed, slender, with clear
blue eyes and an engaging smile - a smile seen too
seldom these days.

Owen reminded Bess of her first husband, Will, a
clerk in Scarborough with an eye for the girls. Bess had
snared Will with her coppery curls and bold tongue. It
was Will had taught her to read and write. Bright Will. Handsome Will.

Bess knew what it was like to nurse a dying husband
and fear for the future. She had buried two husbands, both beloved. The fathers of her children. Poor Lucie
did not even have the comfort of children.

Owen Archer might be just the man to lift Lucie's
spirits.

But the timing of his arrival disturbed Bess. He
suited the Wiltons' needs too well.

Owen did not mean to chat with the apothecary,
merely to meet him and get a sense of the man.
The door of the apothecary was ajar.

A woman stood behind the counter, measuring pow
der into a pouch for a customer who paced back and
forth, complaining about the weather. The customer
was well dressed, though his speech had the rough
edges of the North Country. Most likely a merchant.
He did not seem at all put out about being helped
by a young woman whom Owen assumed to be the apothecary's daughter.

The woman glanced up at Owen. Looked again,
with a hint of uneasiness. He was sorry for that,
for she was a comely young woman, fine-featured
and with clear eyes. But he could imagine what she
saw. A scarred stranger in road-dusted leather. Trouble. And perhaps she was right. He waited until the
merchant had departed, then approached the counter.
She studied him evenly, her eyes pausing on the scar
that spread out from beneath the patch across his
cheekbone.

'Is the Master about?'

She bristled. 'Not at the moment. What can I do
for you?'

Stupid. He knew the Master was bedridden. And the question had gotten him off to a bad start with
her. 'Do you have a salve of boneset and comfrey? My
scar tightens and draws with the winter wind.'

She reached over the counter and touched his cheek.

He grinned, delighted. 'You have a gentle touch.'

She withdrew her hand as if he'd burned her. 'It
is obviously difficult for you, but you must think of
me as an apothecary.' Her eyes smouldered, her voice
chilled.

Cheeky daughter, to call herself an apothecary. 'For
give me. I found your touch disconcerting.'

'Sweet words -'

'I did ask your forgiveness.'

She nodded. 'Honey and calendula. They are the
best softeners. Ask any court lady.'

'Softening. Aye. That's what it's needing. But some
thing also to soothe the fire that returns now and again.
To the scar, that is.' He grinned.

She did not. Her blue eyes had a granite glint to them.

He withdrew the grin, coughed. 'Sorry again.'

'I can add something to cool the skin.' She cocked
her head to one side, still with the even gaze. 'Your
speech has an odd music. You are not from the North
Country.'

'Wales is my mother country. And the scar was
got in the King's service.'

'A soldier?'

He could see that displeased her. He was not doing
at all well.

'No more. I've seen the error of my ways.' He
beamed his most disarming smile.

'You are fortunate’ Spoken without a hint of being
charmed.

'It is my excuse for being clumsy with women.'
York women in particular.

She smiled - politely - and stepped away to mix
the salve. Owen watched her, noting how fluid were
her movements, how graceful and sure. Her hair was
tucked up in a clean white kerchief, baring a long, slender neck. He wished he had two eyes to feast on
her.

She bristled as she turned back to him. 'Have I
grown horns?'

He reddened, realising how he'd stared. But sure
ly she recognised adoration. He refused to apologise.
He'd done nothing to offend her. But he did change
the subject. 'I noticed the garden gate.' He gestured
towards the door. 'Do you keep bees?'

'Bees?'

'For the honey in the salve.'

'No. No hives. I would like to, but I've no time
to tend them with my husband ill. We get our honey
from the abbey. St. Mary's. You are a gardener?'

Her husband? Surely this was not Mistress Wilton.
'I was a gardener in another lifetime.'

She looked puzzled. What clear blue eyes she had.
How they bored into his soul.

'When I was a boy in Wales.'

'Ah. You are a long way from home.'

'A long way indeed.' He loved those eyes.

She cleared her throat and nodded towards the pot
he clutched.

'Oh. Aye.' He handed it to her.

With a flattened spoon she measured out the salve. Exactly one measure.

'You've a practised eye.'

'Five years as my husband's apprentice’ she said
with quiet pride.

There it was again. Then you must be Mistress
Wilton.' She nodded. How disappointing. Married, and
to the man he hoped would employ him. He offered his
hand. 'Owen Archer. I am staying at the York, so we'll
be neighbours for a while.'

She hesitated, then shook his hand. A firm, warm
shake. 'We're pleased to have your trade, Master Arch
er. The Merchets will take good care of you.'

'You said your husband is ill?'

Her face closed up. She handed him his salve. 'Be
sparing of this. It is a strong medicine.'

He regretted the question. 'I will be careful.'

The shop bell jingled. As the fair Mistress Wilton looked beyond him to the doorway, the colour drained
from her face.

Owen turned to see what wretch disturbed her.
The Summoner, Potter Digby. Owen had acquired
a second shadow.

Mistress Wilton did not move. Owen picked up
the salve pot. 'I've been using what I had twice daily.
Is that appropriate for the new mixture?'

The blue eyes moved, focused on him. Colour re
turned to the cheeks. 'Twice daily? It must bother
you very much. How long since you were wounded?'

'Three years.'

The Summoner stepped up to the counter on Owen's left side. His blind side. Sneaking wretch. Owen con
trolled himself. With a slow, casual air he rested his
right elbow on the counter and turned to look at
Digby.

The Summoner nodded at Owen, then said to Mis
tress Wilton, 'I inquire after the health of Master
Wilton. God grant he is better?'

'He improves with each day, Master Summoner.
Thank you for your good wishes.'

Owen noted that as much as he had irritated her,
she had not sounded nearly so cold as this. He hoped
she never used such a tone with him.

Digby seemed oblivious. 'I remember Master Wilton
in my prayers.'

'We
are most grateful.'

No, they weren't. At least she wasn't, that was plain.

'God be with you.' The Summoner bowed slightly and slithered out the door.

A riddle. A visit from the Summoner would be
welcome by few, but Mistress Wilton's reaction was beyond distaste. It seemed she and the Summoner had old business. Owen tucked the incident away to digest
later.

Mistress Wilton held on to the countertop, her
knuckles white. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Seemed surprised to see Owen still there. He hated
himself for bringing that shadow with him into the
shop.